


witch behind the way

by peachyteabuck



Category: Bucky - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Ableism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Multi, Omega Ivar (Vikings), Reader Insert, Witchcraft, witch reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 05:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16848436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: a sort-of-modern au where bucky and ivar are werewolves, bucky and you were once (and maybe still are) lovers, and you will do anything to keep them safe.





	1. i

"How much longer until we get there?” Ivar grumbles, struggling to follow the path with his crutches. The broken-open rocks cause him to almost-trip every once and awhile. Bucky always catches him if he can’t catch himself, but the threat of humiliating himself by falling on the ground still looms.

Bucky looks around, scanning for forest for clues as to the distance to their destination. A bird chirps to their left far away, and Bucky swears he hears your melodic voice in it. “Less than half a mile, but she’ll be waiting for us. Don’t worry.”

The forest is cool and thick with the last rain, the ground settled under their feet and mud stains their shoes. The only psychic in their town told them that they spoke to told them that they’d know when they found it, they’d feel like with a certainty they’d never felt before. She was right, the expansive garden and dogs that roam the premises with thick collars make the place unmissable. Both men let out a deep sigh when they smell the sweet air, the petrichor coming from the mist surrounding the land. Wordlessly, they slowly move their way to the front door, Ivar hiding behind his braver counterpart. The animals pay them no mind - too busy munching on twigs and grass or chasing each other to care about the two strangers.

Bucky uses his only arm - his right one - to tap the knocker against the door. It’s gold, molded into the shape of a snake. Bucky traces some of the grooves with the tips of his fingers as he waits, some of them worn from age and use.  _Who else has been here? Were they searching for the same refuge as he and Ivar were?_

You open the deep oak door, music pouring out into the ears of the two men in front of you. You’re wearing some sort of velvet bralette, the deep purple material matching the sleep shorts you wear. The thick socks are pure white, your wild hair pulled away from your face to reveal a tattoo Ivar struggles to read. Your aura is cozy, relaxed. It’s some sort of unintentional power move; your smooth, clean skin juxtaposing their sweaty, dirty bodies. The tea mug in your hand is steaming lightly, and Ivar begs to warm his hands over it. The journey has made him cold and his crutches aren’t helping, the cold cool freezing against his fingers. How you’re staying warm in close-to-nothing is lost on him completely.

“ _James_ ” he hears you gush, then feels Bucky fall into your arms. It seems him fawning over you has caused him to miss some of the reunion. As you two fall into the living room, Ivar trails behind, taking in his surroundings. Your house is large and open, one floor with barely any doors and no hallways. It’s got all the markings of a witch of your stature: a mounted deer with half-melted ritual candles littering the horns and golden blades curving around it on the wall to make some sort of crown, thick knives with encrusted metal handles, an old leather jacket with sigils and patterns embroidered onto it with varying colors of threads, bookshelves organized neatly with aging books, various silk robes. That’s just what’s hanging on the walls. Ivar feels like he could live here for years and still find something new every day if he went through the piles of stuff on your desk and in drawers and over your floor.

Ivar doesn’t move, being here feels too unfamiliar, but in the way an old memory is. Like he belonged there once, but somehow over the years that invitation had eroded. The important thing is that he was welcomed now.

Bucky had told him about this for years, about how you had known each other as children but hadn’t spoken in years. As Bucky came into his alpha status and you became more powerful, he became determined to find you again. He needed a plan to leave, though, which he made with Ivar after they bonded. The real push Bucky needed was to lose his arm in a fight with a neighboring pack’s alpha. While Ivar saw it as a sign Bucky was too wild for his own good, the now-one-armed werewolf took it as a bright light straight to you. By then you were some sort of legend in this part of the country - like a goddess shrouded in both mystery and offerings. It baffled Ivar to no end.

But his disbelief that you were even real - let alone that Bucky had close ties to you - were overwhelmed by his need to escape their small, conservative town. Queer, cripple, Nordic trash. Bucky had only lived with them for a few years, but Ivar’s family had been there for generations. His roots -familial ones at least - reached deep. Still, he jumped at the chance to leave.

“My dove, come here,” Bucky mumbles. He currently has you pressed against a wall, artfully avoiding all of the supernatural decor. You’re too locked in on running your fingers through his dirty hair and rubbing your thumbs under his ears to pay any attention to the other man, but  _he’s_ definitely paying attention to  _you_.

Ivar had heard the legends about you; a witch with powers beyond her years that used them by rules only she abided by, some sorceress whom only those with the highest wages could afford, an enchantress who took what she wanted from whomever she pleased. To think that Bucky, Ivar’s good, dependable, wonderful Bucky had known you at any point in his life baffled him to no end.

But still - he was in your home, on your territory. Ivar struggles to reach you two, his exhausted body not really allowing for much. You notice, eyes clouded with lust but brain still cognizant of your guest. You push lightly on Bucky - who follows your request to be let down without protest. The way your body moves towards him reminds Ivar of a horse, some large mass of muscle who’s blissfully unaware of their own power as their graceful body slowly moves across the valleys between the two of you. The way you caress his face makes his heart race in a way only Bucky has ever ignited. “Why don’t  you come to bed? That’ll be easier on your legs…”

They both nod, following you to a room sectioned off by a thick drape. It’s weighted, black. If one didn’t pay close enough attention, they’d mistake it for part of the walls. It takes both hands for you to pull it back, the split in the middle revealing a bedroom as expansive and specially decorated as the rest of the house. The wide, circular bed is centered against the far back wall. The dark red sheets look like gallons of blood, and it’s the most beautiful thing Ivar has ever seen.

“Lay down, baby,” you tell Bucky, “But don’t forget to make room for our little baby boy.”

Once Bucky is settled and stripped, Ivar moves down beside him. It’s obvious he doesn’t know where to put his crutches, the bed too wide to lay them down next to it and the sheets to clean to leave them within arms reach.

You chew at your bottom lip, trying to find a solution. “Do you want me to lean these against the side table? You should be able to reach them from the bed…”

Ivar doesn’t speak. Just nods.

Once the crutch problem is resolved, you crawl between them. Bucky immediately begins to kiss along the side of your neck, but Ivar seems more hesitant. His hands shake a little, and he seems to recoil everytime you look him up and down. He’s attractive, undeniably so, but obviously doesn’t know it. You pet your fingers and long, pointed nails through his soft hair. His eyes close, and in that moment the fatigue from the long journey with Bucky that he had suppressed suddenly hits him.

“Oh, baby,” you coo. Bucky has since moved to kissing and biting at the soft flesh of your stomach and side. You don’t stop him. “You must be so tired…” you rub a bit of caked mud from his left eyebrow. “And dirty…would you like a bath?”

A small nod and grunt indicates a “yes.”

You’re on your side now, and Bucky rests his chin over your hip. “May I have one, too?”

“Of course, my love,” you disentangle yourself from them, finding a robe to wrap around your chilled body. “Would you like anything in it?”

Bucky grins childishly, like he was just given permission to eat dessert before dinner. “Ginger and honey.”

“And you, Ivar?” He’s almost sleeping, legs twitching a little. You turn to Bucky, who’s still looking at you with that dopey look on his face. “I’ll just put ginger and honey in his, too.”

Your bathtub is large, one you walk down into. As the water fills it, you grind the ginger and mix it around with your foot, then you pour the right amount of honey in. Breathing in the steam, the heat travels through your body and relaxes you. What Bucky told Ivar was true, you were expecting him. In truth, you had been expecting him since he had left. But something in the last few days had felt different. The air seemed crisper and easier to breathe, the deer seemed fluffier, the vegetables you grew seemed juicer, the trees seemed taller. Everything felt lighter, the weight of the world somehow lifted off of you if only for a moment. It all made sense when you heard the knock on your door, the one Bucky and you used to use with the treehouse your father had built for you before you were born. Everything just seemed to click the moment you pulled back the door.

“My dove,” Bucky calls to you from the doorway, calling you back to the moment. “Would you like me to bring Ivar in?”

Ivar. The name of the lover of your lover. Oh, what a world to live in, where love multiplies in such unexpected ways. Would Ivar ever love you like Bucky did?

Does. Like Bucky  _does_.

No matter, anyone who Bucky thought was worth the trouble deserved to be protected in the manner of which you provide. You would keep him safe just as you had Bucky, it doesn’t matter whether he loves you or not.

“Yes,” you say simply. “Do you think you can carry him?”

“Of course,” Bucky replies, voice low. You continue to stare at the tub, mind elsewhere. You fret around the room, trying to seem busy. Normally you have a few animals to help you (being a witch has its perks - one of which is being able to communicate with animals) but you threw them out the minute you had an inkling of an idea of what would happen. You wanted to be alone with him, with them. But why were you avoiding them altogether? Why were you suddenly so worried about organizing your oils and salts and herbs and whatever else was in whatever jars you were handling.

You don’t know how, or what, pushes you to rejoin them. The steam in the room sticks to your skin, but it’s not uncomfortable like how it gets in the dog days of summer. It’s refreshing, a breath of something warm to wake you up. For a moment, you just watch them. Ivar’s cuddled into Bucky’s chest, both of them sleeping peacefully. They’re both still dirty from where the water doesn’t touch them, their hair and skin still filthy. You grab some conditioner from on the trays you placed near the edge and lather it into Bucky’s hair. A purring noise comes from low in chest, getting progressively louder as you scratch at his head. It seems to lull Ivar further into sleep, but you don’t mind. The trek from that wretched small town must’ve been so long, he deserves to rest.

Once you wash it all out, Bucky wakes up enough to lift his head up. His only arm is wrapped protectively around Ivar, so he just lifts his head to look at you with droopy eyes. “Join us,” he whispers. How are you to deny him that?

You strip of  your clothes and wrap around him, too - one hand goes to trace Bucky’s stubbled face while the other traces Ivar’s intricate tattoos. Silence settles over the three of you, and you revel in the safety of the moment. Bucky had left you for what he thought was the opportunity to start his own pack all those years ago, the weight of his people and duties pushing you to the side. He promised he would return to you, and you promised you would watch over him.

You kept your end of the bargain - wolves (real ones) and deer and the occasional rat kept eyes on him while he started his new life, you cast off the people that wanted to hurt him. But he had somehow escaped your grasp, and lost an arm.

One day he was fine and had all four limbs, three days later you were notified by your hawk that he was down to three. He was fine, the bird told you. He was completely alright. Bucky slowly but surely adjusted to life without his right arm, met Ivar, bonded with him. Sometimes it was painful to watch, but it was all worth it. This moment, this peaceful moment, proves that.

Bucky’s steady heartbeat lulls you into a state of complete tranquility, the only sound the running water filtering itself in and out of the tub.

“Hey, I feel like I should explain-”

You cut Bucky off immediately. “Later, my love. Now is for sleeping. Later is for making reason of the situation at hand,” you look down to Ivar’s sleeping figure before continuing. “If  you love him-”

You can feel Bucky’s chest tighten. “I do.”

“Then I will love him, too. Alright?”

Bucky nods. “Alright.”

You grin. “Now sleep, my darling. We’ve got a long forever in front of us.”


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as bucky heals, you and ivar have yet to get used to each other.

There is such fear in Ivar’s bones. It’s carved into them with dull hatchets from years past, weapons from wars he’s fought for reasons no one has ever taken the time to explain to him. They’ve made the kind of grooves that don’t just dissipate when one moves far, far away from the reasons one is so scared so much. The terror is a part of him now, just like his disease or the scar on his left eyebrow or Bucky. You will never be able to separate it from him or him from it.

His chest tightens, his muscles ache, his jaw clenches. Oh Gods, oh Heavens above it hurts. Sometimes he thinks the pain will just kill him, it’ll take him just like he’d wanted so badly when he was a teenager.

Ivar thinks it’ll never go away. He thinks he’ll always shake in fear when the sky thunders or when one of the dogs barks particularly loudly in the middle of the night. Bucky, a man who’s lived with him too long to be woken by his shakes, always leaves Ivar be. He assumes there’s nothing he can do other than cuddle him as best he can (only having one arm and all) and hope his muscles eventually decompress. For better or for worse, Ivar is always alone with his thoughts when he’s woken.

“What are you so afraid of?” Your voice almost melts in with the other sounds of the night; the crickets and breeze swishing the trees around and distant howling and hooves scuffling and leaves crunching and-

“Nothing,” Ivar replies simply.

Neither of you are in bed with Bucky, who’s currently snoring like a bear deep in hibernation. You’re both in your adjacent study/spell room/whatever you want to call it with Ivar’s resting on his back on a mound of blankets and while you read at your desk. Your back is to him and your hair is up, just like the day he met you. In the darkness, he can see the faint gold tint of your tattoo on the back of your neck. It’s a small dagger, a warning sign to all those who try to stab you in the back.  _I am a force to be reckoned with, you weak, weak creature. A strike at me comes at a price I doubt you are able to pay_. You still don’t turn around as you speak. “Liar.”

Ivar shrugs, but doesn’t say anything to the contrary. Should he tell you? Why is he so afraid? He can’t explain it, so he doesn’t try to. He just stays quiet. _If you’re so smart, you can figure it out_ , he tries to convince himself.

You’re currently detailing a spell for making large oak trees grow within a few days, but it can wait. You place the pen down, some of the words smudging across the pristine white pages as you do. “You know, this is the most we’ve spoken without James with us.”

Ivar shrugs again, remembering all the questions Bucky has asked you over the past few months, trying to fill in the gaps in his memory to try to finds something to talk to you about.  _Do you still like peanut butter as much as you did when you were little? Did you ever travel to Europe like you wanted? Is lavender still your favorite scent? Do you still like apples?_  He always wants to learn about the little things, the guilt always eating away at him for leaving you. “Now  _you’re_ lying, we talked about that face tattoo of yours once while Bucky was out feeding the dogs.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Because James asked me about it  _before_ he left.”

It hits Ivar like a bullet to the chest, then - that he’s been staying in your house, eating your food, petting your pet deer - and he barely knows you outside of what Bucky has asked you about, or what he’s overheard you tell Bucky, or…

Oh Gods, he needs to get to know you better.

“What’s up with your nails?” He asks.  _Nice one, buddy. You can ask about anything and you ask about her fucking nails._

You smile, but don’t turn to face him.  _Finally_. “They allow me to handle delicate things easier.”

“Oh,” he says, voice small. You try to imagine what he looks like, the moonlight painting his face as he stares out the large window as his face contorts. “What’s with the dogs?”

You shut the book you were writing in, giving your full attention to Ivar. Fuck spells, this is way more important. “Some of them are watchdogs, they help me patrol my land and keep everything in check. They’re my eyes and ears…” You figure the more you talk, the calmer it’ll make him. Just like with Bucky - you talking about all of the intricacies of the world you’ve cultivated for yourself seems to allow them to picture themselves in it, too. “The more feral ones do that, they’re mostly skeletons and hellhounds and the like. There’s about,” you count on your fingers. “Twenty, enough for a good-sized pack.”

All of the animals in question have taken a liking to Bucky, who takes care of them like they’re his children. He brushes the ones with fur and picks out the twigs and leaves from the ones who are just bones. Sometimes you think you can hear him talking to the dogs, murmuring to them about his time as as some feral pup in the woods you grew up in. Seeing him happy is a blessing, to say the least.

Ivar sighs a little, it’s reminiscent rather than the usual sad. “We used to have some of those back home…” he crinkles his nose. “Not the, dead ones…obviously. They were all those aggressive, mean ones, though. Meant to keep wolves away from cattle and small children away from vegetable gardens.”

You giggle a little. You have a sneaking suspicion he was the one they were trying to keep from eating the sweet tomatoes or watery cucumbers - a cool treat for the hot, dry summers of their town. “Mine are babies. Meant purely for deterrence, those things. Like to prance in the tall grass like baby rabbits or something…even the deer I keep around is better suited for guarding than they are.”

Ivar laughs, deep in his chest. You take the moment of happiness to walk closer to him before settling next to him. You don’t try to touch him, just look at a deep rivot in the ceiling like he is. It’s been there since you moved in about ten years ago, and you’ve just never found the time to finish it. It’s like scar tissue - a fixable blemish but one you keep around for no reason other than it represents the passing and harshness of time.

You speak next, trying to keep your voice to a whisper as to not scare him away. “Tell me about what happened to James.”

You can feel Ivar inhale deeply before he speaks, and his words are uncertain and strained. “Bucky is…you know how he is…he’s…got these, these ideals for himself. He thought- he thought that he could find himself a pack and tried to challenge the alpha of one from some neighboring town. Someone we know found him and dragged him to our house. It’s not… “ you can hear the words struggle to leave his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m a bad storyteller…”

“No, please,” you whisper. You still don’t look at him. “Tell me everything.”

He swallows before continuing. The day is burned into his brain like a cattle brand; the morning air was thick - just like it was the day he came here. It stuck to his skin and made him tense anxiously with each passing breath. He could tell something was  _off_ , but Bucky did that sometimes - would run off for a few days and come back with stories or money or whatever he thought was valuable at the time. Ivar only started to sense something was wrong when the bonding mark on his neck began to ache. It caused his stomach to churn like the liquified organs of a decomposing raccoon. “The old woman took pity and left him on our front lawn, surrounded by a mourning ring. Bucky was scented like he was dead, killed…I didn’t think overwise until he started coughing up blood-” He cuts himself off to choke down a sob.

You pause, having no idea how to comfort him. You choose to go with what feels best: you smooth over his eyebrows with the sides of your nails and murmur some sweet words in your mother tongue. “Do you want to stop? I don’t want you to be in any more pain…”

Ivar shakes his head and goes to wipe off the tears that fall down his temples and onto the blankets. “No, no I need to, I need to…” he takes another deep inhale. “My mother, she was…my family is kind of Pagan, we know some old herbalist stuff from like, old, old Europe. I got him stable and…he healed…slowly. Werewolves, especially alphas heal so much faster than humans, but the fight…it still did significant damage…”

You shut your eyes to try and keep back the tears at the thought of your love being in that much pain. Of course it did, of course the fight hurt him so badly. Superficial cuts and bone breaks heal much quicker in werewolves than other creatures, but muscle? They have to heal twice - once for human form and once for wolf form. It’s a slow, agonizing process. Most who survive the initial trauma die while their body desperately attempts to heal itself - it’s a miracle he’s alive, let alone was able to make the journey to your cabin.  _Fuck, he’s too strong for his own good._

“Thank you,” you murmur into his shoulder. “For keeping him alive.”

Ivar shrugs a little, almost displacing you.  “I’d do anything for him.”

You take the moment to crawl on top of him, bracing your arms on either side of his body. “Is this okay?” You whisper, voice low like you’re talking to a easily startled prey animal.

He nods, pauses, then moves his face up a little to kiss you. It’s soft, small. Like little children playing in the middle of a wheat field during dusk. “Tell me about Bucky when he was little.”

You smile, peppering his face with small kisses as you speak. “How is he now, but smaller and dumber and with both arms.” Ivar smiles, too, wide and cheeky. If anything could bring you together, it’s Bucky.  Sweet, charismatic, loyal Bucky. Oh god, you love him so much. He hasn’t changed a bit since you were kids. You were in love with him then and you’re in love with him now. Always have been, always will be. Nothing could change that or come between you and him. “He’s been quieter than before, but that’s…you know, it’s.” you shrug. “It’s understandable. James has been through a lot…”

Ivar doesn’t respond, but moves forward to kiss you again. It’s sweet, hesitant. “I haven’t kissed anyone else other than Buck in…ever.”

You giggle a little. “James was my first, too.”

Ivar crinkles his nose. “First kiss?”

You laugh at his naivety. “First  _everything_.”

Ivar pauses a moment before speaking again. “Why do you call him James?”

You shrug, moving to trace the creases on his face from the creases. “I’ve always been the only one that he’s ever allowed to call him that, ever since he were little. It was…” You breath in, remembering the memory. _You’re fifteen and have known James for the past three lifetimes. His hands are like bolts of lightning and you never want the storm to subside. He tells you he has to leave and his mom is calling you away. Right as he lets go of your own hand, you surge forward to kiss him. “I love you, James,” you tell him. He smiles into your lips and breathes in your rich scent one more time._  “I will always love you more.” “Something else, something the universe wanted me to have more than I thought I ever could.”

Ivar kisses you again, but this time it’s more heated. After a few moments, he pulls away. “Wh-wait, why are you doing this?”

You move to straddle him on his stomach, pulling your wild hair from your face. Your face tattoo, like the one on the back of your neck, seems to glow. I _t didn’t before, why is it doing that now? Are the sparks flowing through your veins peeking out through the ink?_  “Why does anyone do anything?” You shrug. “I don’t know why I do a lot of things, I like to think the magic guides me.”

Ivar swallows, still staring at the glowing spread above your eyebrow. “I…are you sure?”

You look outside, one of the dog’s movements catching your eyes and effectively distracting you.“About what, my love?”

Ivar shrugs, running his calloused hands - rough from years of labor - over your soft, soft thighs. “I don’t know. This, being a witch, anything at all.”

You look back at him, a ring of moonlight catching on some of the silver jewelry in your face. It wasn’t something Ivar noticed at first - the piercings. Bucky was the one who noticed one night in bed as you slept after a particularly draining spell. He questioned you about them the next morning, to which you happily explained each one. The two nostril ones, the one in your septum, and the one in the center of your philtrum were all tokens of your accomplishments.

_“In short,” you told them as you plated them both pancakes. “I’m powerful as fuck and nobody should fuck with me.”_

After that, Ivar didn’t ask about the rings in your ears. Or nipples. Those seemed to be for a later conversation.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be sure of anything,” you answer truthfully. “But is anyone? No one knows jack shit, and I find a lot of comfort in that. Cosmic ignorance is bliss, I guess.”

At that moment, Ivar uses one of his hands to grab you by the back of your neck to meet your lips with his. His lips are chapped and yours taste like lavender salve, your tongues meet and explore each other. Your movements are both experimental; you don’t want to scare him off and he doesn’t want to push you too far. Both of your hands grasp at his face, soon moving to run up and down his chest. “Wait-” Ivar suddenly pushing you away.

“What?” You’re breathless, lungs begging to be filled with him rather than the crisp night air. Oh, what a waste of space that stuff is!

“I don’t…I wanna…what did you think when Bucky and I showed up on your door…” Ivar’s words fall out of his mouth and onto his chest.. He’s so nervous, he feels like he’s about to throw up.

Now your chest  _heaves_. The second you saw Bucky’s face that day - scratched and bloody and covered in his stubble - your entire childhood with him came back to you like a crack of lightning. You didn’t know what to think about Ivar being there until you realized that they had bonded, and at that point you didn’t care. It had been so long, it had felt like a forever ago when you had last seen him. You were just starting to train when he left, you both were so  _young_. In an effort not to crumble under the grief from his leaving, you almost forgot about him - forcing any thought of his laugh or the way he always helped you with the stupid spells your mother had you do or his love of running in fields to the very back of your mind. But then it was all back again, pushed back to the forefront of your mind. When you saw his bandaged arm, the scarring, everything - you felt like a piece of your heart had been cut out with a rusty hunting knife. You bathed them, let them rest - but the next day you put all your energy towards picking up where Ivar had left off with Bucky’s healing. The arm was mutilated. That’s the only way to describe the crushed bone, the torn flesh, the mangled muscle. For the next week or so you slipped into what your mom always called “survival mode,” it’s something you’ve used to cope with tragedy for years. It’s one of the mechanisms you don’t particularly like, but that’s life, isn’t it? Coping with it?

Every so often you or the dogs will find injured creatures in the woods, and you normally do whatever they need to heal to the point of being able to walk and/or find food and then kick them out. You’ve got a lot of responsibilities in the forest and in your community; you can’t afford to drop them for every rabbit who got stung by a bee or every wolf pup that eats chocolate while in the wrong form or whatever else goes down in these woods.

But this is Bucky you’re talking about, not a fairy whose wing tore a little. Everything you had emotionally, physically, and mentally went into making sure he could live the rest of his life without risk of infection or something else that would stem from improper care. It’s not that you think Ivar didn’t do enough - his has some skills, judging by all he was able to do when he and Bucky were alone - but that you’d skip a corner and it’d cause him to fall asleep and never wake up again.

At one point, while trying to wean him off of the opioids, he slipped into what can only be described as a coma. It was days before Bucky woke up, immediately groaning in pain. It made you and Ivar both jump up from where you were anxiously watching him and fly to his side. You clutched his head in your shaky hands.

_“Hey, hey,” you cood to him like one would comfort a hurt children. He stopped thrashing once he saw your face, his tight muscles slowly unclenching. His right arm came up to wipe away one of your tears of relief. “It’s okay,” you whispered to him. “You’re okay now.”_

_He laughed a little, then winced. He was still in pain, though some of the bruises had subsided and some cuts had healed. Not many, but some. Bucky sure as Hell didn’t look as bad as before, dirty and exhausted from the journey._

_“Oh my god…” he mumbled, words slurry from painkillers and the like. “I can’t believe…god I haven’t seen you in…” It’s been so long since you’d seen each other that he was worried about what you think of him._

_You smiled weakly as more tears spilled down your face. “Same here, bud.”_

You don’t want to relive that experience again, ever. All that pain was completely worth it, but doing it all over again? No thanks. “I thought the love my life had come back to me with the love of his. I thought that only person I’ve ever truly loved in this world was back with me…” You trace his lips with the pad of your thumb, and he lightly kisses it. You smile. “And that he brought someone with him I would learn to love just as much.”

Ivar bites his bottom lip, chewing on it. “You love me? Like you love Bucky?”

Before you can answer, he sucks the thumb that was resting on his chin into his mouth. It makes you moan deeply, the gutteral sound filling the whole room. “You naughty boy,” you tsk. “You like to act like you’re so innocent, don’t you?”

Ivar huffs out a laugh as your hand moves to hold the underside of his jaw and then your fingers inch their way back up to his mouth as your thumb re-enters it. “‘M not innocent, I’m just quiet…”

A chill shoots through the room as the night breeze comes through the open window. It’s sobering, the way it hits your skin and fills your lungs. You breath in deeply, trying to get it to fill you like some sort of drug. “You know, just because I don’t love you like Bucky doesn’t mean I don’t love you…”

As the words leave your lips, the electricity flowing between you and Ivar in a feedback loop seems to stop. Ivar allows your spit-soaked thumb to free itself as you balance with both hands on his muscled chest. You make no move to traces the scars, but you do take special care to avoid the healing wound from an altercation with a branch a few days ago. It’s mostly scabbed anyway, but you don’t want to hurt him - not in that way at least. “Are you sure?”

“Sure about what, love?” you make the move to pull off the loose sweater, exposing more skin to the cold air and him. Your skin heats up under his gaze, just like it does under Bucky’s. Despite the hotness of the moment, shivers shoot themselves up your spine.

Ivar tries to shrug, but struggles in his current position. “This… I guess.”

You take the moment to unhook your lacy bralette - a complicated one that goes nicely with your skin tone. As it falls besides you, Ivar’s breath hitches at the sight of your breasts and his hands twitch. He wants to touch, that much is obvious. “You still think I’m unsure?”

Ivar’s speechless - all he can do is nod. You can see him trace the long and winding tattoo that dances across your chest with his hooded eyes. Unlike the others, this one is deep, mars black. It’s a snake that curls through the valley of your breasts before the head finishes between your collarbones. A one curved line - a halo, Ivar soon realizes - wraps around its head. Below your breasts the snake is sliced in half by an unidentified object  _(the dagger on the back of your neck, maybe?)_. There’s another tattoo - one faded and much less striking - right above your belly button. It’s a tooth, a molar, maybe? With a crown tilted to the left right above it. Ivar just marvels at the works of art, at you. He can’t seem to move, or - more accurately - has no idea what to do. He’s seen the tattoo before, sure, but never like this. He’s never seen you like this, either.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” You ask, guiding Ivar’s hand that was on your waist to the breast that the tail wraps around. He takes the opportunity to explore - to squeeze it in his palm, roll your nipple between his fingers, trace the stretch marks you have there. You bite your lip in an ill-fated attempt to stifle your own moans…you still don’t want to wake the lover that’s still sleeping.

“I’ve-I’ve done this with Buck,” he mumbles.

You giggle a little, guiding his other hand up, too. “Doing this with me is a lot different than with him,” you say, now rubbing your core up and down his clothed length. He’s just swear sweatpants and you’re just wearing a pair of Bucky’s boxers - the friction is both delicious and utterly painful. “C’mon, baby,” you moan. “Just  _fuck me_ ,”

Ivar nods, not knowing how to do anything else besides follow orders. Together, you pull both of the tragic barriers off of your bodies and finally,  _finally_  you can slide onto Ivar’s cock. You balance your right hand on Ivar’s shoulder and the other goes to pulling your hair out of your face, grabbing onto it so the pain can remind you that this is  _real_. He moans lewdly, grabbing at whatever he can: the back of your neck, your breasts, your hips, your hair. Neither of you really speak, mostly because neither of you can. This isn’t fucking and it isn’t love making, it’s something more feral than that. This is a bomb set off on a gas line, liquor at the end of a long match, a fire at an old barn.

You grab one of Ivar’s hands from your shoulder and drag it to your clit. “ _Rub_ ,” you hiss, and he does. His inexperience and nervousness shows, but he’s got the idea. You move your fingers over his so he knows what you like, occasionally telling him to stop - which he luckily doesn’t question. You can explain why later, right now you just wanna fuck this man until you both see stars. Ivar cums first, his hips jerking up into you every few heartbeats. Your own follows soon after. As the aftershocks subside, you crumble on top of your lover.

The noises of the night settle between you two as you both fall asleep, the crickets chirping and birds squealing dissipating into the darkness just like the tension in your and Ivar’s relationship.

As the sun rises, the light hits Bucky’s eyelids and rudely wakens him. He’s laying off to the side of the best closest to the opening into the room, curled in the warm sheets but not with you or Ivar. At first he panics, but then he hears the tea kettle whistle.  _Oh_ , he thinks. _You two must be making breakfast._

As he pads into the expansive kitchen, he sees you standing at the sink, looking out the large window above it. It’s cracked open so that you can feel the light breeze that reminds you of last night, smell the morning dew. God, you love nature.

“Hey there, stranger,” Bucky says, scaring you a little. It causes you to jump, almost dropping your cup of tea.

“Oh, god. Bucky! You scared me!” you whisper harshly. You turn to face him and oh god he’s so handsome. He’s shirtless, the heavy sleep causing the sheets to pattern his skin with long, wild strips of scarlet. As your eyes scan his body, you also notice he’s just wearing boxers. Just waking up seems to have exhausted Bucky - he spent the whole day with the dogs and doing a bunch of hard labor, so it makes sense that he’s so tired. You immediately instruct him to go back to sleep.

Even in his groggy state, Bucky’s still able to notice the change in the dynamic between you and Ivar. Before he was skittish, scared of you. He followed Bucky around like a lovesick puppy. Now he seems at ease, independent. Ivar and you move around the kitchen in a way that would make any onlooker think you two had been doing this for ages. It makes a dopey smile spread across Bucky’s face as he goes back to warm, cozy bed.  _As long as he has you and Ivar, nothing can do wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you produce things you hate and sometimes you produce things you love. this is one of the things i love.


End file.
